Marion buried her face in her hands.
“Marion, you need to listen. You could be seriously implicated. You have the sculptures, and they are part of a criminal investigation. You must turn them over to me.”
Marion was silent.
“Say something, Marion. Everything is out in the open.” The detective’s tone was gentle. “I have no idea if your collection is worth anything now. Its only prestige came from having belonged to Magni. Once every sordid detail about your father and what he stooped to gets out, you’ll have the job of convincing the industry that the collection still has merit. Just ask yourself if this was all worth it.”
Marion stood up and wiped her face.
“You’ll get the sculptures,” she said. Then she threw her shoulders back and looked the detective in the eye. “Yes, it was worth it. You want to know why? Because I’ll never experience another ordinary day in my life.”
Epilogue
It wasn’t six o’clock yet, and it was already hot. Someone was pounding on the door. Juan didn’t feel like getting up. His ears were ringing. His eyes were scratchy, and his throat was dry.
“Juan, it’s me, Miguel. Open up!”
Juan didn’t respond. Maybe Miguel would go away.
“Fuck, Juan, what the hell are you doing? I know you’re in there!”
Juan spat swear words into his mattress and then yelled at the door. “Get lost!”
The man on the other side banged even harder.
Juan sat up and ran a hand through his hair. His mind still foggy, he stared at his dirty feet. How long had it been since he showered?
“Juan! Juan!” Miguel persisted. “The huaqueros. We need you.”
“All right, all right, I’m coming.”
“What the fuck are you doing?” Miguel asked when Juan opened the door. He was out of breath from all the pounding. Miguel was a big man whose pants couldn’t accommodate his huge belly. They rode his hips, which meant that the top of his ass crack was usually exposed, despite the loose-fitting shirts the police officer favored. “Shit, it reeks in here! What a fucking mess!”
Mango peels and empty bottles littered the floor. Dishes were strewn on the counter, and the ceramic-tile floor hadn’t been swept for days.
“Yeah, I’ve been feeling crummy. Some kind throat thing,” Juan said.
“I can see why. The ashtrays are full! So what have you been smoking?”
“I think I’ve got some Chicha Morado in the fridge. I haven’t had anything to eat or drink in days. Let me check.” He pulled out two bottles and handed one to his friend.
Miguel took a slug. “Now go get in the shower. It’ll make you feel better.” He watched in amusement as Juan ducked into the bathroom. “And you shouldn’t hit the liquor so hard. You need to keep a closer watch on that.” He absently shooed a fly away with the back of his hand.
“Tell me,” Juan yelled as he sprayed himself with cold water. “What could be so urgent at this hour?”
“A seizure. I’ll explain later. Once we get there. You have to see it first.
~ ~ ~
Behind the wheel of his old pick-up, Miguel was flying up a badly-rutted dirt road with his friend. All around, the mountain landscape looked desolate, with only a few scrubby patches of vegetation interrupting the barren soil. Suddenly, while rounding a curve, Miguel encountered a stretch of low-hanging clouds.
“Shit, that’s just what we need! Juan, check to see how much room we have on our right!”
Juan, who had nodded off in the passenger seat, struggled to sit up. He looked out the window. “I can’t see anything, and we’re getting too high up. Let’s find a place to turn around and make the trip tomorrow.”
“Not gonna happen,” Miguel replied dryly. “We’re going up there. At five miles an hour, maybe, but we’re going.”
“Are you crazy? We’re hugging the side of the mountain already. God help us if another pickup’s coming from the other direction. We’ll be screwed. Not even a stand of pine trees to break our fall.” Juan crossed himself and cursed into his beard, convinced that the police were overdoing it, and the seizure wasn’t worth the trouble—at least not in these conditions.
Ever since he had been appointed director of the Lambaye museum and put in charge of the province’s excavations, Juan hadn’t been able to study the contents of a single grave. Tomb raiders were always one step ahead of him. Today wouldn’t be any different. But Miguel kept going.
Two hours and twelve miles later, Miguel stopped the engine and motioned to Juan to get out of the pickup and follow him to a stucco hut on the outskirts of a village.
Inside, the hut was dimly lit by an oil lamp. Juan could make out a wood-plank bed topped with a foam mattress and a table at the back of the room. Sculptures were resting on the table.
“I can’t see worth a damn,” Juan said. “Give me a flashlight. One that works.”
Miguel handed over his flashlight, and Juan inspected the objects one by one. It was a real smorgasbord: red and brown funeral vases, leather masks, cups and bowls, and anthropomorphic sculptures. But there was nothing worth interrupting his sleep therapy. It was a waste of his time.
Just as he was about to turn off the flashlight and leave, he directed the beam toward a sack of potatoes. Peeping out from behind it was the head of a sculpted figure. In the figure’s nose was a gold ring with an emerald. Juan gulped as he picked up the figure and carefully examined it. He couldn’t believe his eyes. The craftsmanship was impeccable.
“Miguel, your huaqueros struck gold. Tell me what went down here.”
“A fight between the Bernal brothers, most likely when they were divvying up the loot. They had been in a burial mound near the village. We nabbed one of them after the villagers notified us. The other one got away. Is it that important?”
“Look…”
The police officer let out a whistle of admiration as he turned the sculpture around in his hands. “Do you remember the Magni affair?” he asked. “This definitely looks like The Tattooed Man. You know, the sculpture that disappeared after his death. I didn’t put much stock in the story the girl told. She thought the sculpture was cursed. That gringo Magni had just keeled over after attacking her, so I thought she was imagining things. I can see now that this fits her description.”
“At least we’re not going to let this one get away!” Juan said.
“What do you plan on doing with it?”
“You know exactly what I plan to do. It’s not leaving the country. Not one of those sculptures has ever been seen again.”
“You can’t display it in your miserable museum.”
“Oh yes I can. As a matter of fact, it’ll be showcased in the middle of the main room.”
“Are you crazy? The huaqueros have been digging up graves for generations. You think they won’t break into your place and take it right out from under your nose?”
Juan seemed unfazed by the officer’s concern. Deep in thought, he was staring at the sculpture, evaluating it, and determining how strong a punch it would bring.
“That’s what they make security systems for, my friend. With this, my miserable little museum will be able to afford a security system and much more.
“People will come from all over to see it. Researchers, collectors, archeologists, scientists… Then the others will come—hundreds of visitors from all over the world. I’ll have a hotel built and a library in Itauba. I’ll invite guest speakers and hire a personal assistant. I’ll acquire other terra-cotta sculptures and expand the museum. Nothing but the best lighting and the finest showcases. I’ll devote an entire room to this single piece. And I’ll finally be able to tell off anyone I want. This piece will be my most beautiful jewel, and I will be its guardian.”
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About the Autho
r
Born in Algeria in 1963, Anne-Laure Thiéblemont grew up in Madagascar, Lyon, Paris and Bogota. This childhood spent on the move left her with a taste for travel. That and her studies in art history were the two influences that would shape her career. She worked for a long time as an independent reporter for major French daily newspapers and magazines, specializing in art and gem trafficking. Afterward, she spent thirteen years as a magazine editor-in-chief. She lives in Marseille, France, and since 2014 has been working on her own design and applied arts magazine. Writing is her passion, her own secret garden. The Collector is her first mystery, and was inspired from her investigative reporting on art trafficking and meetings she had with famous art collectors. When Anne-Laure is not writing, she is out searching for gems and designing jewelry she has made in Istanbul.
About the Translator
Sophie Weiner is a freelance translator and book publishing assistant from Baltimore, Maryland. After earning degrees in French from Bucknell University and New York University, Sophie went on to complete a master’s in literary translation from the Sorbonne, where she focused her thesis on translating wordplay in works by Oulipo authors. She has translated and written for web-based companies dedicated to art, cinema, and fashion, as well as for nonprofit organizations. Growing up with Babar, Madeline, and The Little Prince, Sophie was bitten by the Francophile bug at an early age, and is fortunate enough to have lived in Paris, Lille, and the Loire Valley.
About Le French Book
Le French Book is a New York-based publisher specializing in great reads from France. It was founded in December 2011 because, as founder Anne Trager says, “I couldn’t stand it anymore. There are just too many good books not reaching a broader audience. There is a very vibrant, creative culture in France, and we want to get them out to more readers.”
www.lefrenchbook.com
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Table of Contents
Cover
Dear reader
Info-specifications
Title
Info
Quote
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Thank you
About the Author
About Le French Book
More books
The Collector Page 17